Classic Poem

Old Thames! thy merry waters run
Gloomily now, without star or sun!
The wind blows o'er thee, wild and loud,
And Heaven is in its death-black shroud;
And the rain comes down with all its might,
Darkening the face of the sullen Night.

Midnight dies! There booms a sound,
From all the church-towers thundering round:
Their echoes into each other run,
And sing out the grand Night's awful " ONE ! "
Saint Bride, — Saint Sepulchre, — great Saint Paul,
Unto each other, in chorus, call!

Who speaks! — 'Twas nothing: — the patrol grim
Moves stealthily over the pavement dim:
The debtor dreams of the gripe of law;
The harlot goes staggering to her straw;
And the drunken robber, and beggar bold
Laugh loud, as they limp by the Bailey Old.

Hark, — I hear the blood in a felon's heart!
I see him shiver — and heave — and start
(Does he cry?) from his last short bitter slumber,
To find that his days have reached their number, —
To feel that there comes, with the morning text,
Blind death, and the scaffold, and then — WHAT NEXT ?

Sound, stormy Autumn! Brazen bell,
Into the morning send your knell!
Mourn, Thames! keep firm your chant of sorrow:
Mourn, men! for a fellow man dies to-morrow.
Alas! none mourn; none care: — the debt
Of pity the whole wide world forget!

( MORNING .)

... 'Tis dawn, — 'tis Day! In floods of light
He drives back the dark and shrinking Night.
The clouds? — they're lost. The rains? — they're fled;
And the streets are alive with a busy tread:
And thousands are thronging, with gossip gay,
To see how a felon will die to-day.

The thief is abroad in his last new dress,
Earning his bread in the thickest press;
The idler is there, and the painter fine,
Studying a look for his next design;
The fighter, the brawler, the drover strong;
And all curse that the felon should stay so long.

At last, — he comes! With a heavy tread,
He mounts — he reels — he drops — he 's dead! —
The show is over! — the crowd depart,
Each with a laugh and a merry heart.
— Hark! merrily now the bells are ringing:
The Thames on his careless way is springing:
The bird on the chimney top is singing;
Now, who will say
That Earth is not gay,
Or that Heaven is not brighter than yesterday?